


vegetarian

by ruruka



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, date night.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 09:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka





	vegetarian

She misses never once noticing a tick to the clock. She misses the pink Sharpie bleed through every last page of her agenda book.

Touring off seasons rest within treachery, a slide through coveted relax to the next day's tedium an overwhelm; there's fans to greet and albums to sign and covergirl seekers to contact, but that's all few and far between sans the mix of ruthless choreographers breathing gainst her nape from curtains drawn to the next risen. And she'd hate to call herself desperate, so the top thesaurus site suggests she's frenzied, last ditch, eleventh-hour. Fine and well, and she's tucking her phone back into Prada and taking a sniffing glance upwards. She thinks it rather distasteful to keep a wall lined fish tank in a sushi restaurant, eyes gleaming in empathy as she locks gazes with a passing zanclus. Certainly the decor is fitting to a downtown ten-table eatery. The invitation had met a wrinkle to the nose, though ultimately agreement, because she's bored as fuck and nobody stops you with a cheekful of rice to ask for a picture at places with no steps to the entryway.

(And the schedule square for this Friday night had been scrawled over in green, because she'd been so _frenzied_ there was no second thought in finding her usual pen.)

A breath crawls through her, shakes her shoulders laxed, straightbacked, when it is next that she's to spare a glance far over them to beckoning.

"Sayaka! Yo!" Waving greets her back. Her prince charming's leant with limbs askew at a booth across the room. "Bring yourself over here, mama, my buddy waits this section. I can totally swindle us some free drinks."

Scratching wood legs to tile, she's polite enough to hide her lip gloss grimace, taps kind in her silver pumps and sweater dress and all other pretty pretty pretty girl accessories perfect to impress any jackass on a date. "Kuwata," is her nod into perching across from him, to which he laughs with an _ouch_  hissed through awkward teeth. The shine to powder blues dashes around the room, channels enough gusto to stare forward at her the briefest moment before thumbing open the menu at his lap. "Damn, they sure got a lotta choices here."

Funny, she'd been thinking just the opposite; another sniff, a scan over the skimpy section of temaki options. Glances break to him every so often, capture him full to their further conversation, and he's almost charming her. He would be, too, had she known null of him before this night. Kuwata Leon is the naughty neighbor boy watching her dress through her curtains, more in the literal the punk player who's tried to get a hold on her since high school. A hold on her, and in the same breath a woman for every finger he's got free to hook through their belt loops. A mutt, so naturally. Though she finds herself snorting into laughter (no cutesy idol giggles, her true and ugly colors beneath) to his chattering on about his favorite sashimi cuts, his haggling with this _buddy_ once he steps along to pen their drink orders. The condensation of her tuitionless pink lemonade drips along every finger pad not three minutes later.

(She watches him sip at his fountain soda, cautious not to waste a single yen of the two hundred it'd been marked.)

Kuwata rests back in a lip puckered refresh to cater eyes along options again. Her own menu lay folded at the table's corner, picking an index nail at the lacquer as idle thought consumes her. The lighting's kinder at the end, and dare she even think him handsome within it, squinting downward a focus rare in him. Perhaps more veracious, she's overcome with enough euphoria over not having to stare at the fish tank anymore that her brain is playing her for a lovestruck fool. Lemonade. Sip.

"Gunkan maki...that's a weird lookin' one. Think I saw that in a Pokémon game once." More laughter. Lashes blink closed once.

"That's fish eggs," she tells him, watches his tongue loll in disgust so tourist-esque it makes her wish to shame his American half. "It's not so bad. Just super salty."

His head shakes. "Uhh, I think the fuck not on that one. I'm feeling up for something spicy. How 'bout this, mmm, ahi nigiri? Sounds good."

"Have you never eaten sushi before?" Her eyes are broad in their blinks to push away scrutiny, wonders altogether why now this spot had been chosen by her doofus of a date, but he's quick to deny her in a stream.

"No, no, no, no! I love it, trust me, I'm just more of a fast food junkie, usually, heh."

"...Right," purses her lips. "Try the dynamite roll. I think you'd like it."

A grin basks suddenly in her advice. "Dynamite roll for a dynamite guy like me, eh? Alright, I'm sold. _Hey, yo, waiter!_ "

Cataclysms stir in her at his high waving arm to cajole their server over, wolf whistling to the fuming walk. "Ain't you supposed to be, y'know, waiting on us?"

The tall head of slicked curls and jaw strong enough to bend ivory are unmistakable to her, and she'd had her funny little maladroit _oh, hey, haven't seen you since graduation_ type greeting when he'd first made his rounds. But again she has hardly the place for input betwixt narrow glares battling terms thrown loose, evidently.

He straightens, takes pen to pad and stares haughty forward, and Kuwata tosses a hand high in praise. "That's more like it. Now say, _good evening, I'm Oowada Mondo and I'll be serving you tonight, what could I get-_ "

"The hell d'you want, and make it quick before I toss your rat ass back out the door." The pen clicks. Kuwata cackles into a forehead bang on the table.

Snarls tremble over guffawing, though her nostril flaring sigh is the moon lamp to cut through all murk. To it, her date's the ability to thaw himself out anew, where he's all suave and all game to an elbow leaned forward. "Alright- two bowls of miso, the dynamite roll plate for me, aaand the lady'll have-"

"Kappa maki. Please."

Nigh as gruff he nods and he's gone for the time being. Across from her sipping, a nod nudges her. "What's that, the cucumber shit? Hell, I was gonna be cute and order you that princess roll I saw on here. You know, so then we'd both match our meals."

The wink, in her opinion, is superfluous, though at the least well executed. "I don't eat meat, so it's a good thing you weren't cute."

Perhaps she's behaving too coldly, yet there isn't a single flinch in his voice as he carries on to testifying the necessity of burgers and fries in a man's life. Little is had to say back aside from it being fair preference and best for keeping a dancer's body in shape, and they move on to a discussion on an idea for punk rock idols to come into existence. She swipes away a mess of notifications beneath the table.

"You're friends with Naegi, you ever seen him eat? Three plates of curry, gone in, like, thirty seconds. I don't know where he even puts it all." Ice battles his straw sucking against the cup's plastic bottom. "He eats meat, though. Curry, burgers, chicken karaage, you name it."

"Yeah?" and lift takes one brow. She'd like him to at least acknowledge that it's been ten minutes since the close to their conversation on the wonders of carnivorism. She'd like him to have worn a shirt that wasn't stained with ketchup and distract her eyes every other sentence, though she supposes that's a bit much to ask.

His shrug collects her focus. "I'm just saying, you don't seem to have a problem with getting messy with guys who don't bend over backwards to delight PETA for you, so there's still a chance for me here for sure."

Rapid blinks ask if he's even speaking Japanese. She's never been so thankful to stare down into a bowl of rippling miso soup in her life.

Her slurps at the spoon are dainty as her entirety. Merely is it a front, and she's willing her guts not to growl as she sideeyes the half dozen sliced maki beside. She swaps the dishes and bows forward into a quick wasabi dip and fingers over mouth chewing. By her third roll, Kuwata's scraping porcelain for any last lick of soup. So long goes her peers until he's forced to laugh into a tug of his second plate forward. "Man, I'm starving." Palms rub together before moving to snap his chopsticks in all the theatrics of a blown pupil stage drummer. Delicate is his grasp for the first brittle nori wrap.

Maizono doesn't know how to get spicy mayo and saliva out of cashmere, but she thinks she'll soon find out.

"Oh, fuck, sorry about that." Kuwata's scrubbing his wrist along his mouth as one would mascara from carpet fibers. A splat of half chewed prawn joins the ketchup stain. "I wasn't expecting it to be so, uh...disgusting. Can I just-"

Where his drink had emptied before the entrees, he reaches over dishes to grasp hers, gulps it in pounds of chivalry that ends with a coughed up belch.

Table napkin cloth combats her top in dabs. In most candor, feeling such blinding tidal waves of emotion has cancelled out into apathy, hearing him blab on excuses (though, listening would be an overstatement) whilst crouched worrisome in her peripheral. Her nose drags up to his unfolding form, his, "Okay, let's just scram here and go for ice cream", his hands searching denim in aspirations. She stops the scrubbing the same note his palms stall at his ass, panic flaring in his expression that's quick to duck out toward the back with an _uh, hang on a second._

Six minutes of listening to muffled arguing past the kitchen doors over an empty wallet versus years of friendship tires her more than any hours of performances. Banknotes slip from purse to tabletop as she slips out for air to quell.

Handsome. Perhaps she should take up comedy.

"Hey." Shoulders are taut within fleece, pinned to hands in the pockets all sheepish all gaudy. "I got the tab taken care of," rolls her eyes mentally, but she's soft with him neath freckling starlight. "You, uh, wanna call 'er a night?"

Maizono sips at him, the raw embarrassment in his eyes that refuse. Something reminds her of the tropical fish. Just a few taps of her tongue could break that glass barrier.

"I was promised ice cream," chirps she so sudden in a tempting smile, tilts into his brightening. "Come on, I'll drive."

"Sweet, I walked here, anyway." Her eyes do roll in the physical now, because he's funny, and there's green marker on the pad of her right thumb. That same touch goes to her keys, clicking the modest Camry to a note of life on their approach.

Her heels melt to pavement, in tune to every beat in her chest. Kuwata Leon is no doe eyed angel, though she's her own faults as to each their own bears, and she'll flaunt herself for a down to Earth man so long as he's got the allure. Echoes pause behind her, call her to glance back to where he's standing in that tilt jawed interest. "Oh, your headlight's out."

"Hm?" Glance back, glance forth. "Oh, right. That happened yesterday, I forgot to get it fix- Kuwata?"

Starlight paints his retreating shuffle. "Look," palms forward, "I've got some stuff with the quote unquote _law_ going on right now, I can't exactly afford to be in the car if you get pulled over. Thanks for tonight though, you looked smokin'. I'll see ya!"

A blink flips and he's swallowed by night.

Spicy mayo and saliva smeared between her breasts, Maizono tucks into the driver seat to a close lid lean. From her purse, she retrieves her cell phone after a long moment's self collection, presses it shoulder to cheek as the steering wheel is tugged leftways into departure; "Hey, Makoto. Busy tonight?"

**Author's Note:**

> 


End file.
